Dinner with Mark
by kwm5000
Summary: Who's coming to dinner? Why it's Mark Watney and a cast of guests—living, dead, real, and fictional. Note that Mark curses, as in canon.
1. Chapter 1

**Dinner With Mark**

 _Who's coming to dinner? Why it's Mark Watney and a cast of guests—living, dead, real, and fictional._ The Martian _is copyright 2011, 2014 by Andy Weir, published by Crown Publishers._ _Image NASA/JPL/University of Arizona, public domain. I do not own_ The Martian _or its characters. Note that Mark curses, as in canon._

* * *

 **SOL 16 Thanksgiving**

Roast turkey with gravy

Stuffing

Peas

Pumpkin pie

Mark Watney pulled the steaming packages out of the rehydrator, loaded them onto a tray, and dropped it onto the table. He sat down heavily in the chair in front of it and groaned as the movement pulled at his stitches.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he announced. "Commander, I hope you don't mind that I didn't fix the mashed potatoes. Cooking for one is such a pain in the ass. Anyway, I think I may be needing the potatoes later for some botany goodness."

He looked around the table at the empty chairs. "Shit, I'm starting to lose it already. What is it they say? That you're not nuts if you talk to yourself, only if you answer back? Well, then, I guess we keep these little conversations to ourselves, keep them out of the logs. Sound good to everyone? Right, 'he who is silent is understood to consent.' Who said that, Harrison Ford? I miss the Internet—you had a problem, you had a question, the Internet knew all."

He ate some of the rapidly congealing turkey and tore open the sealed plastic bags labeled "Garden Peas—Vegan" and "Bread stuffing," mixing the peas into the stuffing. "Why'd we have to have peas, anyway? They're interesting scientifically—our buddy Gregor and all that—but they taste like shit. Yeah, I know, be grateful for the peas. When the food's all gone, I'll be wishing I had some peas to kick around."

Taking a mouthful of the mixture of stuffing and peas, he chewed, swallowed, and leaned back from the table. "OK, let's all go around the table and say what we're thankful for. Commander, you go first."

 _Mark, I left you for dead. How do you think I'm feeling thankful for anything right now?_ the voice of Commander Melissa Lewis sounded in his head.

"Uh, uh, uh, Commander. My game, my rules," Mark said. "It's Thanksgiving, so we're all gonna be uplifting. Pretend I'm not dead. Which I'm not. Dead, that is. But you don't know that. Shit, now _I'm_ confused."

 _Mark, I'm grateful for the opportunity to lead this wonderful crew. Better?_

"See, Lewis, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Mark squeezed two pieces of turkey into his mouth. "Who wants to go next? Anyone? All right, then. I'll go. I'm grateful that my 10 days of antibiotics are over. Cipro is hell on my stomach."

 _I am grateful for my wife and children._

"Of course you are, Vogel. Seems like every packet we get from NASA includes the _kinder_ 's photos. Good one."

 _I'm grateful for Chris. He can't hear me, can he?_

"No, Johanssen, he can't. He's streaking away from Mars on the _Hermes,_ and you're just a voice in my head. You're all figments of my overactive imagination," he added, irritated.

 _Mark, you're not being very nice._

"Shit, Beth, what do you want from me? Do you want me to sing "Kumbaya," and we'll all hold hands?" Mark shoved away from the table and took his tray over to the compactor. He yanked the drawer open, dumped in the now-empty packages sitting on the tray, and shut the drawer with a little more force than was necessary.

 _She's right, Mark. You're not being nice._

"Mom." Mark stilled, both hands on the counter, staring at the wall in front of him.

'If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.' _It's a classic for a reason, dear. We miss you. We'd known your job was dangerous. But so many years of successful missions, so many astronauts in space, it started to seem almost routine. . . We're having Thanksgiving at the house as usual. Your father thought it was best for the cousins. And, your arrangements are keeping us busy._

"Oh, fuck."

 _Mark, please._

"Mom, I'm sorry. My foul mouth again." He began to pace in the small area between the counter and the table. "I've tried not to think about you and Dad. I hope you don't mind. Have to keep it together, you know." Mark eased himself back into the chair.

 _I understand, Mark. Your father has been the same. He spends most of his time in his workshop working on those model boats._

"I remember those boats. I remember when he used to take me out by the pier when I was little, and we'd race the boats. I remember how mad he got that time I ran his sloop into the pier." Suddenly weary, he said, "Mom, I'm sorry, but I can't do this now. Not right now."

 _Your game, your rules._

Mark heard the smile in the voice in his head and nodded. "But maybe later?"

 _Any time, dear._

Mark fixed a cup of coffee and pushed a wedge-shaped package ("Pumpkin Pie—Contains Dairy and Eggs" into the rehydrator. "So, Dr. Beck, what do you have for us?"

 _I'm grateful for antibiotics, I'm grateful for clean water, I'm grateful for Beth, I'm grateful for an end to the drought in Ethiopia._

"Aha!" Mark crowed, as he pulled the dessert out and opened the package. "The good doctor thinks he can pull one over on us with his platitudes about good health and hygiene. Thought you could slide that in there and no one would notice? It's about time, man. Let's hear all about it. Your secret's safe with me." He smirked as he squeezed the spiced custard into his mouth.

 _It's safe because she's not going to find out. Lewis has enough on her mind without half of her remaining crew making moon-eyes at each other._

"Chris, Chris, what can I say? 'You don't find a girl like that every dynasty.'"

 _What?_

"Chris, seriously, you can't tell me you haven't seen _Mulan."_

 _You can't tell me you have?_

"With 6 nieces and nephews under the age of 10, I think I could quote every Disney movie made since 1995."

 _Please don't._

"Whatever, man. It's only a matter of time. NASA should have known better than to put a bunch of single people on a long-term mission." Mark opened the drawer for the compactor, balled up the crumpled plastic wrapping from the "pie," and arced it towards the opening. The ball bounced off the edge and floated to the floor of the Hab. "And now our trio of single people is a duo. You are fighting the inevitable, dude."

Mark leaned over, wincing, and picked up the wrapping and placed it in the drawer. He pushed a button, and after a brief whirring, the room was again silent. "Seems like there's something I'm forgetting."

 _So once again the Latino is last. You're lucky I don't file charges. NASA may have put me on this mission to check off a box, but I'll EEOC your ass. Hell, I'm not even going to tell you what I'm thankful for._

"Martinez, amigo! You know I'm saving the best for last. Come on, man. Tell me what you whisper to the man upstairs when you hit your knees at night."

 _My friend, I thank God for my wife. I thank Him for her long legs that wrap around me every night. I thank Him for her mouth, como miel. And I thank Him for her—_

"Not funny, Martinez. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me before 'All Systems Normal'? See if I invite you to dinner again."

 _Hermano, in this, sadly_ _we are now brothers in arms. What am I thankful for? I am thankful for you, my friend._

"And I, you, hermano. Next time I have arroz con pollo, consider yourself invited."

With that, Mark dimmed the light and picked up Johanssen's iPad. A few hours with Hercule Poirot would be a better cure for Martinez' parting gift than watching the Commander's crappy 70s TV—Chrissy in _Three's Company,_ Daisy Dukes in _The Dukes of Hazzard,_ who knew the 70s had so many babes?

* * *

 _Would a mid-21_ _st-_ _century man know 20_ _th_ _-century Disney? Who knows, but shout out to MAM and EMM. I have several dinner guests lined up for Mark you may enjoy meeting. Who should have dinner with Mark? Please review or PM! Also, if you think this should be M based on language alone, please let me know._


	2. Chapter 2

**Dinner With Mark, Chapter 2**

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? _Why it's Mark Watney and a cast of guests—living, dead, and fictional. This is planned as a series of loosely connected one shots._ The Martian _is copyright 2011, 2014 by Andy Weir, published by Crown Publishers._ _Image NASA/JPL/University of Arizona, public domain._ _I do not own_ The Martian _or its characters._

* * *

 **SOL 31**

Arroz con Pollo

Lemonade

As Mark Watney sat at the table with his tray in front of him, he wondered what they were eating for dinner on the _Hermes_ today, if Martinez had yet had the pleasure of enjoying the arroz con pollo, and if so, what he thought of it.

 _That arroz con pollo's not right. Not the arroz and not the pollo._

"Martinez, who made you the Hispanic Julia Child?" Mark said. "I don't think it's that bad. It's a little taste of home—if home is the West Side of Chicago."

 _Watney, what do you know? You're a gringo!_

Mark leaned back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs, and taunted, "Said the man who thinks Hispanic-American culture peaked with "Jenny From the Block"!

 _What can I say, man, she has legs right up to her . . ."_

"OK, we don't need to go there," Mark warned. He'd just finished reading Johanssen's copy of _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_ and had no interest in more Poirot-therapy to undo Martinez' mental pictures. "Anyway, I've got a confession to make," Mark said. "You know that wood cross you had that you talked Lewis into allowing on board?"

 _Wait,_ had _?_

"You know how they say God helps those that help themselves? Well, I helped myself," Mark said as he slowly backed away from the table as though Martinez was really there and would reach across it to throttle him. "Do you know how hard it is to find something that will burn in the Hab?"

 _Turning pyro now, are we? Are you that bored already?_

Playing with the empty package of arroz con pollo—which really wasn't _that_ bad—Mark drained his lemonade. He said, "I have an idea, and I need to do a controlled burn. I really _couldn't_ find anything flammable in the Hab. I guess NASA likes it that way. I'm going to try liberating hydrogen from the leftover MAV fuel, and I'm going to shred up your cross to start the burn."

 _Watney, you are really out of your mind, you know that?_

Mark sighed, "Yes, that's me, crazy 7 days a week and twice on Sundays." It wasn't bad enough he doubted his own sanity, now imaginary people were doing it, too. He stood and stretched, feeling twinges in his back, and turned to move out of the small kitchen area in the Hab."

 _If we had found your body, I would have blessed it._

Mark stopped. "You would have done what?" he questioned, feeling suddenly uncertain.

 _Since I was the only man of faith among all you Nones, NASA had a little talk with me during training. The Armed Forces dropped chaplains in the '20s—separation of church and state and all that. NASA wasn't about to risk its dwindling support by hiring one, but they knew that the_ Ares _missions posed unique risks and challenges to the crew. So, unofficially, they asked me if I would "do the office of a priest" if needed._

"They did?" Mark looked dumbfounded. He stared into the distance, perplexed. "I don't understand. Why would they do that?"

 _One too many times at the roulette wheel. They knew the odds were that, at some point, something would go seriously sideways on one of the missions—you know, 50 ways to kill an astronaut: You run out of air, Claire; you miss your supply, Guy; your tether comes loose, Bruce._

"I guess you said yes?"

 _I laughed. I laughed in their faces. And then I said yes._

"Back up, back up," Mark said as reached up into the cabinet for one of the coffee packets. "You need to start at the beginning."

 _I was born a poor, black child. . ._

"What the fuck? Martinez, what the hell are you talking about?"

 _Not a Steve Martin fan, ok. Not one of his best—couldn't touch the classic SNL skits._

 _Anyway, it started when I was in 10_ _th_ _grade. You will be shocked, but I didn't date much in school. A fine Latino like myself, unbelievable, I know. This generation's Antonio Banderas._

 _Everything back then was baseball. It was going to be my ticket out. Then I met Marissa. You know she is_ hot, _man._

"Martinez," Mark growled.

 _So there went my plan. No more "be the first Latino to throw 2 perfect games in a single season." Now it was "be the first Latino to throw 2 perfect games in a single season with a girlfriend who's a total babe."_

"You know," Mark said, "I have better things to do than listen to you build up your self-esteem. I'm pretty sure there are some things I could be burning now." But, he he added hot water to his coffee packet and sat down again at the table. "Damn, too hot again," he said as he burned his mouth with his first sip. "I ought to toss this outside and have coffee-sicles instead."

"So, go on," he deadpanned, "tell me about how horrible your life became after meeting your smokin' hot babe of a girlfriend."

 _It wasn't horrible, it was wonderful. I just didn't know it until it was almost too late._

Taken aback by Martinez' sincerity—what had happened to the _Hermes'_ most reliable jokester?—Mark found himself at a loss for words.

 _She was everything I wasn't—quiet where I was loud, serious where I was the school's biggest clown. The one thing we had in common was our Catholic faith. I met her at a parish retreat. But even when it came to religion, we were different._

 _I went to Mass that weekend hoping to get some divine intervention so I'd pass my precalculus class. When I kept trying to catch her eye during the homily—dude, at 10:30 at night, you cannot tell me_ any _kid in high school is paying attention to the priest—she ignored me. At first, I took it as a challenge. And then, you know, my pride was hurt. But then, one time I looked at her after Communion. And she_ glowed. _She was off somewhere else—hell if I knew where—but it did something to me. It made me think,_ where was she? what was she seeing?

"Hey, Martinez, it's me you're talking to. I've seen you at 2-for-1 margarita night at Tippy's Taco House. You can't fool me with that holier-than-thou shit."

 _Well you know what, then? Go to hell, Mark._

"Wait, you're really serious, aren't you?" Mark took a drink of his now-cooled coffee.

 _I wasn't then. You know, we may have been together since we were 15, but until our junior year at University I wasn't even serious about her. I was too busy being Mr. Macho, trying to get noticed by the scouts. Long story short, in our freshman year, she caught me with another girl and sent me packing. Said if I that's the way I wanted it, well, she wasn't the girl for me._

 _So, I spent that year playing around. I met some_ fine _women that year. But then I blew out my arm and needed Tommy John surgery. Funny how when the good times disappeared, so did the women. I was looking at least a year of rehab, probably 18 months. The scouts moved onto the next great thing, and I was left without a plan. My mom laid down the law: I_ was _going to finish my degree._ _She didn't care what I studied, but I was_ _going to finish. She signed me up for a shitload of classes at community college that summer: Marketing 101, Post-Millenial American History, and Physics for Poets. I wasn't a poet, but physics opened my eyes. The beauty of the world's natural forces, its complexities, rocked my world. I'd always been good at math, so maybe science would be my plan B._

 _Mom took a second job on the weekends to help pay for tuition—I was going to need an extra year to finish a bachelors in physics. Not that many classes from my sports management program transferred into the physics program. I took 21 credits sophomore year and pulled a 3.5. One of the people she cleaned for was a VP at JPL, and she got me an interview for a summer internship. I guess they were impressed by my personality, because the next thing I knew, I was spending 12 weeks in Pasadena. Man, those guys were freaking geniuses. But I learned so much, including what I wanted to do—I wanted to go to space._

 _I took another 21 credits junior year and I lived in the library that year. Little did I know that while I was calculating differential equations, it was Marissa's turn to be watching me. Said she'd give me a second chance, and I took it. You know, she is_ hot, _right?_

Mark snorted, "Yeah, I think I've heard that before. But what's all this got to do with you being our "priest"?

 _Fast forward through the rest of University and graduate school. Marissa and I married, and, man, I was so happy. I kept getting closer to making the cut for the_ Ares _missions, I really loved being married, and I grew in my faith. Marissa brought me along, of course, but she wasn't even the biggest influence. You know, I think it's crazy how many people think that being religious means you're automatically anti-science. The more I learned about the incredible complexity of the molecular structures and forces all around us, the more I realized there was no way this could have happened by chance. Yeah, maybe 1,000 monkeys could write Shakespeare given enough computers and enough time, but all this happen by chance? Just no way._

 _So, when Marissa and I talked about the future, we knew we wanted kids, but we looked for other ways to live our faith, too. She taught CCD and took the Eucharist to the home-bound. And I prayed: What did you want of me, God? Over time, the answer came to me: the permanent diaconate._

"I have no idea what that is," Mark admitted. He tossed his dinner "dishes" into the composter and dimmed the lights in the kitchen area. Moving into the common area, he said, "Growing up Lutheran in Chicago, it doesn't sound like anything a good Protestant would have had anything to do with."

 _You'd be surprised. It's mostly about service. Proclaiming the Word, sure, but deacons are definitely out in the world. Some run pro-life ministries, some direct the refugee resettlement programs, some are chaplains in hospitals, some teach theology at the parish schools. The archdiocese had a class start every 2 years, and I'd just missed the application deadline. So, I waited and kept asking God and Marissa—not necessarily in that order—is this right for me, for us?_

 _I applied and was accepted into the aspirant year—they check us out, and we figure out whether this is what we want to do. At the end of the year, they invited me to attend the 4-year formation program. I could have it all—my career, my wife, a way to serve._

 _And then, NASA called. We've selected you as the MDV/MAV specialist for_ Ares 3. _Pack your stuff, and we'll see you here next month. Shit, be careful of what you wish for. There I was, admitted to the diaconate, Marissa was pregnant with David, and NASA was offering me what I'd dreamed of since I was 16. I could do the diaconate later—there are plenty of old dudes who are deacons—but you don't say "no" to NASA and get a second chance._

 _So that's why I laughed, when they asked me about providing spiritual guidance, comfort, and sustenance to all you heathens. I really was going to get to have it all, just not in the way I thought._

 _Mark, we couldn't bring you back, but if we'd found your body, I sure as hell would have blessed it. Would have done the crew good, too. Funerals are for the living, not the dead, right?_

"Yeah," Mark said as he turned towards his bunk, one of the few not full of Martian soil. "But I'm working really hard not to be dead anytime soon. I'll take a rain check on that offer, alright?" But then, thinking of the hazards ahead of him, not least of which was playing with hydrazine, he added, "But if you can put in a few good words for me, I'll take all the help I can get."

 _You got it, dude._

Mark lay down in his bunk and shared one final thought with Martinez. "Hey, man, did you ever play Dungeons and Dragons when you were a kid?"

 _Not a chance. That was for geeks. I was a jock, all the way. Why do you ask?_

"No reason," Mark said. As he turned off the light in his bunk, Mark resolved not to spend all night thinking of how many ways his plan to create water could kill him over the next couple of days. That was on tomorrow's agenda, and he was a disciplined man.

* * *

 _Had some problems with this one, but hope you enjoy. Next up, something a little less serious._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Martian _is copyright 2011, 2014 by Andy Weir, published by Crown Publishers._ _Image NASA/JPL/University of Arizona, public domain._ _I do not own_ The Martian _or its characters._

* * *

SOL 61

Tuna noodle casserole

Grape juice

Mark Watney stretched out in his bunk and balanced a tray containing a silver packet ("Tuna Noodle Casserole—Contains Wheat, Eggs, Dairy") and a bottle of grape juice low on his abdomen. "What's the use of being King of Mars if you can't make your own rules?" he wondered aloud. "I hereby declare that dinner is a table-optional meal." After days of being cooped up in the Rover after his unsuccessful attempt at death by surplus oxygen and more days after that bent over his hydrazine-burning apparatus, he was glad of the chance to stretch out.

"Come to think of it, maybe I should be King of the Sea, too. I created enough water—maybe I'm secretly Son of Poseidon," he grinned as he dug into the tuna noodle casserole he'd scheduled for dinner on SOL 61. "If I had a choice, though, I'd rather be Aquaman than Son of Poseidon. That movie in '18 was awesome. But I never understood the whales. How come Aquaman can control whales? They're mammals! Makes no sense. If I were Aquaman I'd be smart enough to know fish from mammals."

Hearing a distant rumble, he looked up sharply, set the tray aside, and moved toward the camera by Airlock 1. "Never heard a Martian storm like that before, not even the night of Mars' Mark-spearing, mission-scrubbing hissy fit." He looked through the camera at the image of a calm Martian night and shook his head.

"Nothing outside," he said. "It didn't even sound like a dust storm anyway—more like an underwater volcano getting ready to blow. That makes no sense either. Back in '15, the MRO found conclusive evidence of water on Mars—if you think of cyclical, sludgy, hydrated salts as water, that is. Me, not so much. It's not like I can use them to water my potato farm. No, not even NASA thinks there are underwater volcanoes on Mars."

Mark returned to his bunk and picked up his tray. "Now, I like starting fires with hazardous chemicals as much as the next guy—I am the proud owner of a Y chromosome, after all—but if there was real, honest-to-God water on Mars, I think I would have dug a well instead."

He finished his meal and tossed the package and bottle into the composter. "Because, yeah, not even Aquaman in his cool new armor can make water," he added as he bent over to examine his potato plants. "But I, Mark Watney, the Supreme King of All Martian Seas can and did. Let there be water," he intoned dramatically, raising his arms towards the ceiling of the Hab.

 _Boom._

"What the _hell_ was that? Is the Hab still trying to kill me after all?" Mark said as he moved to his laptop to run a diagnostic scan on the Hab and all its components. "Or is the Ghost of Martian Seas Past jealous of my awesome water-creating abilities?"

 _Boom. Boom._

"OK, jealous ghost it is. Which is cool, because I didn't have enough real scary shit to deal with here."

 _Doooah yooueeah speeeuhkuh whaaaluh?_

 _No, Dory, the human does not speak Whale. You are to assist the small clownfish to find his son._

 _Was he by the boat? I just saw a boat go by here not that long ago!_

 _[Sigh.] Yes, Dory. Please follow the boat. Report back to me when you have found the clownfish's son._

Mark sat down again in his bunk and said, "O.K., just who the hell are you? And why am I being visited by characters from _Finding Nemo?_ "

 _The blue tang is confused. I cannot communicate with her as I can with other fish. One hundred times I have assigned her to help the small clownfish to find his son. One hundred times she has said to me "I saw a boat." Did I ask her whether she had seen a boat? No, I did not._

Mark returned to his laptop and rapidly scanned through Vogel's personal media, which he'd uploaded to his own device. _Justice League, Justice League. . ._ "Are you?"

 _Yes, I am._

"So you can talk to fish?" Mark asked doubtfully.

 _Yes, of course. They, like all the creatures that inhabit my watery realm are my subjects._

"But the whales?" Mark said plaintively. "Why whales? How can you talk to whales when they're mammals?"

 _I have lived many lives. I have gained many skills through these lifetimes. Whales live in the ocean, do they not? I can communicate with all in my realm. I can even communicate with you, Mark Watney._

"Now, that _really_ makes no sense."

 _Mark Watney, you are human. A male adult human's body consists of approximately 60% water. You do not reside in my realm, but as I command the water, I can communicate with you nonetheless._

"And you're here because?"

 _The seas and all they contain are my sacred charge. All the creatures that inhabit my watery realm are my subjects._

"Yeah, I think I heard that before," Mark muttered.

 _And as they are my subjects, their welfare is my obligation. For them to survive, to thrive, the seas, the lakes, the rivers and oceans must be clean and abounding with life. How many years have I railed at Man to cease his plundering of my domain, to cease casting his refuse and chemicals into the seas?_

"Whoa, whoa, big guy. Take it easy," Mark pleaded, hands up. "Botanist here, remember? I love water just as much as you do. No water, no potatoes. No potatoes, no Mark. I don't have subjects and domains and all that kingly stuff, but right now, I am Mars' number-one fan of water."

 _I do not take it lightly when my realm is mocked._

"Mocked?" Mark looked up, astonished. "When have I mocked your realm?"

 _Have you forgotten "the Son of Poseidon"? Have you forgotten "the Supreme King of All Martian Seas"? I assure you that I have not._

Feeling a chill run down his back, Mark stood up and began to pace. "Oh, that. Fuck," he said nervously. "Pardon my French. 'Boom, boom boom' was you, wasn't it? You really need to ignore about 88.76% of the words that come out of my mouth. I am a clown, an idiot, a boy in man's clothes, a rambling man, a man who doesn't know when to shut up," he finished lamely.

"Seriously, though—I can be serious—mankind _has_ fucked up your realm. Do you know how much a can of tuna fish costs now? It's $21—and that's if you can find it. Dad told me it used to sell for a dollar a can when he was a kid. The seas are overfished, the rivers are still recovering from the drought in the late '20s—and a handful of morons still think global warming's a myth." Running his hand down the plastic sheet enclosing his "farm," he flicked the collected water off onto the soil below.

"So, you're right to be angry," Mark admitted. "Angry with me, angry with all of us humans. Please accept my apology, Your Maj-, umm, Sire—damn it, what am I supposed to call you, anyway?"

 _Aquaman will do. I am not fond of WaterGuy or FishBoy._

"WaterGuy?" Mark echoed. "WaterGuy? Is that. . .you're making a joke, aren't you?" A smile slowly spread across his face. "I didn't think you had it in you."

 _Yes, I am often misunderstood. Underappreciated._

"Oh, come on now. Number 10 on the list of most-popular DC characters—that's not too bad, is it?" Mark asked encouragingly. "You did better than Batgirl, the Swamp Thing, even the Martian Manhunter. Really wish I hadn't left my media stick on the _Hermes._ I could have gone for some good DC stories—or Marvel, for that matter. I go both ways, you know."

Even from an imaginary character, the silence was deafening.

"Ok, shutting up again. But why _are_ you here? Was it just my being a pompous ass and needing a good aqueous smackdown?"

 _Your being a pompous ass—_

"Alert the media. He _does_ have a sense of humor!"

— _is why I announced my presence as I did. Perhaps you are not the only one who speaks before he thinks at times. You were correct, however. I_ cannot _make water. When I detected water on Mars where there had been none before, I dared to hope. Hope that some being had succeeded where I had failed. Had found a way to create the most precious substance in the universe. More precious than gold, more valuable than oil._

"The landlubber here is still casting his "most-valuable-substance" vote for breathable air. If mankind runs out of water, I'll drink whiskey."

 _It has been my experience that when humans call themselves "idiots" they are speaking facetiously. It is a joke. But perhaps you truly are an idiot._

"Now, that just hurts," Mark said. He looked up from his laptop, pausing the sequence he'd initiated to manually shut down the Hab's "daytime" lighting system.

 _Do you not know that "whiskey" comes from the Gaelic_ uisce beatha, _or_ water of life _?_

"Did not know that. I guess I am an idiot. Or maybe just of English ancestry. Although I suppose the Irish would say that's one and the same," Mark mused.

Completing his shutdown of the Hab's daytime settings, he stripped, tossing the inner lining of his EVA suit onto the back of a chair, and pulled on compression tights and a t-shirt. He set the laptop down next to his bunk and lay down. As he stretched out, he pulled the thin blanket with the prominent NASA insignia up over his waist.

 _Yes, the Irish are some of my favorite humans. Surrounded by water, they have a proper respect for my realm and my subjects. But you, Mark Watney, are much like an island. Did you not know this?_

"No man is an island, yeah, yeah," Mark yawned.

 _I was not referring to the work by John Donne, but to your name, Mark Watney._

"'Mark' means island?"

 _It does not. According to human researchers, however, 'Watney' is thought to derive from the Anglo-Saxon_ Watan ig _or_ Wata's Island or Riparian Land.

"Fascinating, but I'm a scientist, not a word geek. I _can_ tell you, though, how I created the water. You know the formula—2 hydrogens plus 1 oxygen," Mark began, settling in for a comfortable discussion between two individuals who both had the highest regard for the subject.

"You may have trouble laying your hands on the hydrazine, though."

* * *

 _Sadly, my knowledge of Aquaman is largely limited to Wikipedia. I'm sure some DC aficionados could do a better job. But that SOL 61 entry in the book cried out for embellishment, and since no one else had taken it on, I added Aquaman to Mark's dinner guests. What did you think Mark was thinking on SOL 61? Let us know—The Martian needs more fan fiction!_

 _There is a great press release from NASA explaining the evidence from the Mars Renaissance Orbiter of water on Mars. I can't seem to include links, but if you Google "MRO Mars water" you'll find it. Enjoy!_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 _No it is not March. But we can all_ pretend _it's March. Say March 17. And no, I do not own_ The Martian _or its characters._ The Martian _is copyright 2011, 2014 by Andy Weir, published by Crown Publishers._ _Image NASA/JPL/University of Arizona, public domain._

* * *

SOL 125

Potatoes

Tea

Mark Watney looked forlornly at the plate of potatoes sitting in front of him. On SOL 25, when he'd planned his meals as a part of calculating his potato farm yield, it'd seemed like such a good idea: have potatoes on St. Patrick's Day. Have _nothing_ but potatoes on St. Patrick's Day. Yes, to help stretch his totally inadequate food rations, he'd decided that today he would eat nothing but potatoes grown on his Martian farm. After potatoes for breakfast and potatoes for lunch, they were starting to lose their appeal. Sure, he'd tried to switch it up—potatoes with grape jelly for breakfast, potatoes with Chinese mustard for lunch, and now potatoes with ketchup for dinner—but there was no denying the monotony.

"I said they'd keep me alive til SOL 584, not that I'd enjoy it," he reminded himself. He wondered aloud, "How did the Irish do it?" as he chewed morosely on his third helping of reconstituted potatoes that day. Setting down his fork, he looked around the Hab, taking in his former potato field.

"This is nothing like 'The Quiet Man.' I watched that movie every year on St. Patrick's Day growing up. Mary Kate Danaher was _hot_. All that red hair, and the blue blouse and red skirt, coming over the hill with the sheep. . . I remember the scene where she was serving potatoes for dinner out of a big bowl—more like flinging the potatoes. That first potato rolling off the plate onto the table," he said with a smile.

"But my favorite scene was toward the end, the fight scene with Squire Danaher and Sean Thornton. It must have lasted 10 minutes. Mom always said it was boring," he said, shaking his head in amazement.

He picked up his fork again and resolutely returned to his potatoes, scraping the last of the ketchup from his plate. "But one thing I never understood about that movie: what was with her obsession with her things? I mean, that spinet, and the table and chairs, and the china, linen, and pewter—her dowry."

 _Those were different times, Mark, and Ireland was—and still is—a different place than America. Even by 1952, when I played Mary Kate in the film, things had changed for women. I had a successful career as an actress—what could Mary Kate have done? She could have been a teacher, worked in a store. She could have been a nurse or a nun. Or, she could have married, as she did._

 _For myself, I always wondered whether she was happy in her marriage to Sean. It took me three tries before I got it right with Charles. Maybe using the seachrán—the matchmaker—was a good idea after all._

"Maureen O'Hara," Mark smiled broadly. "Welcome to the Hab. Forgive me for not seeing more of your films. Except 'Miracle on 34th Street,' of course—everyone's seen that. I'm glad you finally came around on Santa.

"But, hey—Happy St. Patrick's Day! What was it like playing a character like Mary Kate, and what the fuck—what the heck—was the deal with her stuff anyway?"

 _I loved that role. It was one of my favorites. I loved working with John. Many, like you, made that film a St. Patrick's Day tradition. Great publicity for an actress—_

"Ms. O'Hara, was that a wink?" Mark asked, chuckling at the thought.

— _even after my last film, in 1991, I could usually count on someone from the press contacting me around March 1. Such a blessing for an old actress. More even than growing old, what we feared most was being forgotten._

"I can sympathize with that," he said, looking at the neatly stacked boxes labeled Lewis, Martinez, Beck, Vogel, and Johanssen.

 _At first, I felt as you did about the character. I was a modern woman, making my own way in the world. Why did she need all those things? And, she had a husband, who must have been a man of some means, able to return to Ireland and purchase his ancestral home._

"Right!" Mark exclaimed, as animated as he'd been in days. During those days, he'd worked harder than ever, planning and then carrying out the repair of the Hab. Anything to keep his mind from dwelling on the fact that, unless NASA managed to come up with some new maneuver, he was going to starve long before the supply probe was due to reach him on SOL 856.

He wiped his plate with an antibacterial wipe, returned it to the shelf, and continued, "Why did she need them? She was Mrs. Sean Thornton, and life had to be looking pretty good, right?"

 _Mark, you're thinking like a man. She needed them because they were_ hers. _Truly, what else did she have that belonged to her alone? She'd spent her girlhood caring for her father's house, which went to her brother on her father's passing. And now, she'd do the same for her husband's house. But neither home was_ hers.

"But, they were _married!_ " Mark shouted in frustration. "What was his was hers and vice versa. Why the fuck—heck—did she need a bunch of moldy old furniture and the spinet—and what the fuck's a spinet anyway," he finished sheepishly, his temper spent.

 _Because, Mark, they were_ hers. _Don't you remember what she said in the film, that her fortune was hers and her mother's—and her mother's mother's—before her? That ever since she had been a little girl, she had dreamed of having them around her? They were given to her—to her, not to her father, or her brother, or her husband. Passed down from woman to woman, those_ things _could turn a man's house into her home. As the Rev. Mr. Playfair said, "The fortune means more to her than just the money."_

"Huh," Mark said thoughtfully. "They _were_ hers, weren't they? Thank you. I don't know how I'm going to survive 856 sols on 584 sols of food. I don't know how I'm going to get to Schiaparelli Crater. I don't know how I'm going to survive one more day listening to Lewis' damned disco. But, it's nice to have an answer about _something._

"So, tell me, what was your favorite scene in the movie? It was the fight, wasn't it? Come on!"

 _It was better than the scene that preceded it, where I was dragged all over the county! But no, Mark, I didn't care for the fighting._

"Women," Mark muttered under his breath. Completing his nighttime shutdown of the Hab, he said, "But you yourself married a military man, didn't you?"

 _You're right, Mark. My third husband,—_

"Impetuous! Homeric!" Mark said with a grin.

— _Charles Blair, was an Air Force pilot. I_ was _very happy with Charles. But Will, my second husband, was another story. How wretched it was to go home to him after filming those lively scenes with Duke. He was violent, and he drained our finances—the money I'd worked so hard for. Perhaps I had something in common with Mary Kate after all._

"Ms. O'Hara," Mark began.

 _Oh, please, call me Maureen. I'm not usually one to encourage such familiarity with the fans, but in this case, I don't think it can do any harm._

"Yeah, I don't expect we're likely to ever run into each other, are we?" Mark asked wistfully. "I really did love that movie. And it's great of you to give me those insights into the role."

 _Thank you, Mark. It's always good to hear from the fans. As to "running into" each other, you never know. If you're ever in Arlington, please look me up. You'll find me with Charles in Section 2, number 4966. Like I said, what we dread most is being forgotten._

"Arlington?" Mark said, puzzled. "Ohh, _Arlington_. Ms. O'Hara—Maureen—right now I can't even get to Earth, let alone Arlington National Cemetery. But _if_ I'm ever in Arlington, nothing would keep me away."

With the Hab in low-power mode, Mark reached for the laptop on which he'd loaded all of the crew's personal media collections. "What I wouldn't give to have 'The Quiet Man' on this thing. But, I didn't expect to be in the Hab for Christmas, let alone St. Patrick's Day. Still, I'm sorry, Lewis, 'Saturday Night Fever' is just _wrong_ for St. Patrick's."

And so, Mark Watney drifted off to sleep with his earbuds leaking "Well you can tell by the way I use my walk" and a woman with red hair, a blue blouse, and a red skirt moving through his dreams, coming over the hill with the sheep.


End file.
